


Minutes 'Til Midnight

by valamerys



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Banter, F/M, Nessian - Freeform, Nesta's Thirst (TM), New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 15:56:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9131350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valamerys/pseuds/valamerys
Summary: “It’s traditional to kiss someone, you know.”Nesta is adjusting to Prythian holidays, and New Year's Eve provides an opportunity for her and Cassian's tension to come to a head.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My yulemaas fic for @vicious-sunshine on tumblr!! belated merry christmas, dudes

Prythian seems to celebrate an endless parade of holidays.

“It’s just because we didn’t have any before, Nesta,” Elain says brightly. “It only feels like a lot.” Elain loves the fae holidays, though, loves whatever stupid decorations there are to put up for each one, loves baking and shopping for thoughtful presents (and loves inviting Lucien to all their celebrations). Mor loves dressing up, and dressing everyone else up, Feyre and Rhysand love making out after they’ve exchanged gifts, Azriel seems to actually appreciate whatever sort of spiritual value these occasions hold, and Cassian likes excuses to drink; they all seem to love holidays.

Except for Nesta, who just… tolerates them.

With one Cassian-shaped exception, she likes the inner circle very much, and it’s never a bad thing to spend an evening with them. But ridiculous gifts, traditions she doesn’t care to understand, arcanely metaphoric candles or dances or bonfires or pumpkins or whatever it is that day are all starting to grate on her, and she’s considering skipping this particular holiday altogether. _Saturnalia_ , it’s called. A celebration of the new year. Ridiculous, especially considering they celebrated the Solstice (and Feyre’s birthday) not three weeks ago, and Yule just over a week ago, and also Azriel celebrates an entirely different holiday she’s forgotten the name of that lasts a whole week that only just ended which they’ve also been half-celebrating… it’s just a lot.

So she’s excused herself from the festivities and been camped out on the house of air’s main balcony for almost a half hour, now, breathing in the cool night air and watching the lights and revelry fill the streets of Velaris below.

“It’s traditional to kiss someone on Saturnalia, you know.”

Nesta’s not terribly surprised Cassian’s come to bother her, or that that’s his opening line. The other thing about the multitude of holidays is that it’s given Cassian a wealth of opportunities to smirk and flirt in her direciton.

“Really?” Nest bites as he comes up alongside her. “I thought it was traditional to kiss someone on Yule. Under mistletoe, unless that was also something you made up to harass me.”

He’d managed to get Elain on his side, and Nesta had found mistletoe magically growing over her and Cassian constantly that night. She’d scowled and moved away every time, though all the other couples in the house had made liberal use of it.

“What can I say, kissing is such a popular activity that all the holidays wanted in on it.” He swings his legs over the wide balcony railing to sit facing outward next to where she stands—if he didn’t have wings, it would be absurdly precarious. “But kissing someone on Yule is just for fun. Kissing someone at the stroke of midnight on Saturnalia is practically a requirement, and _that_ I am not making up.”

“If you want to kiss someone that badly, Cassian, I’m sure there’s plenty of men and women down there,” she tilts her head towards the bustling, partying streets of Velaris they look out on, “Who will oblige you. I, personally, would rather kiss a Suriel than you.”

He smiles, slowly, and Nesta hates they way it makes his eyes crinkle up. It makes him look happy and kind and imminently kissable, and Nesta has to turn away from him because if she doesn’t she’s either going to jump his bones or push him off the balcony.

“It’s bad luck to _not_ kiss someone, actually,” Cassian says lightly. “So if there are any Suriels down there, maybe you should find them in the next four minutes or so.”

Nesta glances at the large clock tower in the town square they can make out from here—it’s been magically illuminated for tonight’s festivities, and the light changes colors prettily. It’s five minutes ’til midnight. Cassian had certainly timed his coming out to bother her, and the thought makes her set her jaw in agitation.

She turns to him smoothly. “Fine.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve convinced me. I’ll go down there and find someone to kiss when the clock strikes midnight. Would you be so kind as to fly me down?”

She’s trying to frustrate him, call his bluff, maybe even make him jealous, but his eyes just glitter dangerously with amusement.

“How about we make a game of it?” He purrs, stepping a little closer. “I need someone to kiss too, after all.”

“Talk fast, sweetheart, the clock is ticking,” Nesta says blithely, turning his nickname for her against him.

“If we both find someone, nothing happens. If you find someone and I don’t, you win. If I find someone and you don’t—“ Nesta snorts, “—I win.”

“What is it we get if we win, though?”

Cassian shrugs. “Just the ability to lord it over the other person in our fights forever.”

Nesta has to take a moment to think about it.

“Alright. Deal.”

Cassian still has to fly her down, of course, but Nesta feels fortified against the usual tension between them when he does. She _almost_ doesn’t think about how strong and solid and warm his arms feel around her, or how she subconsciously leans into him trying to breathe in his scent.

They land in the thick of the festivities, a descending Illyrian attracting only a few stares.

“Good luck, sweetheart,” Cassian says cheerfully as Nesta pretends she couldn’t wait to get away from him.

She enters the closest bar without looking back at Cas, and surveys the crowded, dim landscape. It’s hard to pick out which people are paired off versus not—but she hones in on one near the back in naval uniform who must be fresh off docking in the Sidra who looks promisingly unaccompanied and sufficiently attractive. Nesta’s never been overly good at flirting in any kind of deliberate, come-hither sense, but she knows she has great tits, and she knows enough about men to know that that’s half the battle.

She approaches him straight on, with a smile. “Hello, sailor.” Internally she winces at how cheesy she sounds, but if the slight woozy delay when he looks at her and the half-empty cup of amber liquid in his hand are any indications, he’s a little drunk, so it doesn’t matter. “All by yourself tonight?”

He glances towards similarly-dressed men near the bar who must be his friends, or crew, before regarding her amicably. “Close enough to it.”

“I’m looking for someone to kiss at midnight,” Nesta tries to imitate what she’s seen Mor do when they go to Rita’s: lowers her chin and bats her eyelashes, brings her arms a little closer together in front to push up cleavage. “You up for the job?”

———————

From 60 downwards, people chant the seconds as they tick by, more and more voices joining the lower the number goes. She tugs the sailor into the middle of the street; if Cassian intends to look for her kissing another man, she won’t make it hard for him.

Excited partiers jostle them on their side, pushing them closer. His breath smells like liquor, and he gives her a broad smile, even as he stumbles a little. “You’re beautiful, sweetheart.”

Nesta suddenly feels like something’s stopped in her chest. “What did you say?”

He looks taken aback, even tipsy as he is, by her sudden coldness. “Just that I think you’re beautiful.”

Sweetheart. He called her sweetheart. And Nesta is struck by how deeply wrong it feels to hear that from anyone but Cassian.

She looks, suddenly, up the street, as though compelled to, and through a perfectly-timed gap in the throng of people that flash by she can see Cassian, turning his sly smirk on a dark-haired woman who smiles. Cassian looks up, towards Nesta, as though he can feel her gaze on him—

And then they’re gone, eaten by the crowd, and Nesta feels strangely hollow inside.

The sailor puts a well-meaning hand on her shoulder. “You alright, love?”

“ _Ten!”_ People cry around her, the countdown reaching its climax.

“I’m sorry, I have to—“

_Nine!_

She doesn’t even finish whatever excuse she ought to have thrown him before she pushes her way through the crowd in the opposite direction she saw Cassian in. So she’ll lose the stupid game they’ve made of this. Oh well. She’ll tell Cassian she didn’t find anyone in time.

She definitely _won’t_ tell Cassian that she suddenly realized she can’t bear to be called _sweetheart_ by anyone who’s not him, much less kiss anyone who’s not him, much less that she suddenly panicked about it and ran away.

_Eight!_

She thinks she hears the sailor call her name behind her, but it’s too loud to tell and she wouldn’t stop anyway.

_Seven!_

(Nesta won’t remember until later that she never told the sailor her name. It’s not him calling her.)

_Six!_

She pushes and pushes, breaking through the crowd and stumbling into a dark alley, mercifully free of people. Before she can catch her breath, firm hand grasps her shoulder and Nesta whirls around intending to throw them off, but—

_Five!_

It’s Cassian. Of course it is. And he looks serious and still and beautiful, the multicolored flashes of light thrown by the clock, by the buildings, breaking the darkness on his face in greens and purples and reds.

_Four!_

The roar of the street is at fever pitch, so loud they couldn’t talk if they wanted to, and for once Nesta doesn’t. She just wants to look at him and live in this strange sudden liminal space where her pride does not exist, where there’s no bickering between them—

_Three!_

—Or broken promises or stubbornness, just color and darkness and heat and an all-encompassing, deafening countdown, bearing down the seconds.

_Two!_

Nesta’s gaze drops to his lips. Cassian rests a hand on her jaw, holding her gently.

_One!_

The clock chimes and the rush of it mixes with Nesta’s blood pounding in her ears, with the sudden feeling of Cassian’s lips against hers. His kiss is like a howling wind, it cuts through every part of her, unrelenting, and the jubilant roar of the crowd might be the sound Nesta’s soul is making as her fingers dig into his shirt, demanding him closer.

When they break apart she’s trembling, and music has started up somewhere in the distance. Cassian doesn’t let go, holding her close as they try to catch their breaths. His eyes flutter closed, and he bends to rest his forehead against hers as his mouth cracks into a grin.

“Happy new year, sweetheart.”

.

 

this fic is also on [tumblr](http://valamerys.tumblr.com/post/155200121375/fic-minutes-til-midnight) :)

**Author's Note:**

> "Saturnalia" is the Roman christmas period, I stole its name because 'new years eve' sounds pretty mundane.


End file.
